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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27737770">Do pictures really help?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSnow1/pseuds/RedSnow1'>RedSnow1</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who (2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Feels, Art, Clara Oswin Oswald's Death, Episode: s09e11 Heaven Sent, F/M, Heartbreaking, Memories, Missing Scene, POV Twelfth Doctor, Painting, Sad, Sad Ending, Spoilers for Episode: s09e11 Heaven Sent, TARDIS - Freeform, Time Loop, Twelfth Doctor Era, Twelfth Doctor Whump</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 19:01:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,330</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27737770</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSnow1/pseuds/RedSnow1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Only her presence would arouse his will to fight, to survive. He was giving himself a chance. No words would ever match up to the way she made him feel, no actions would ever fix his mistakes. But a painting was a memory. <br/>A painting was eternal. <br/>And so would she be, once his work was done.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>/OS/</p>
<p>Whouffle Week 2020, Day 5 : Missing Scene</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Whouffle Week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Do pictures really help?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello friends, me again, here for another angsty story.</p>
<p>For today's prompt, I wanted to write about my favorite episode ever, Heaven Sent.</p>
<p>For this story, I was not-betaed, I wrote it last minute. Since I am French, it is possible that you might find some mistakes. I tried my best not to make too many, but sometimes, I can't help it.<br/>Thank you to my dear friend @Persephonia1 for her helpful advice and support.</p>
<p>Happy reading and don't hesitate to leave a comment to let me know what you thought of this story xx</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He painted her eyes first. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was, perhaps, the easiest part. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Brown, a deep, honest brown with a twinge of light. His hand shook as he landed the first drop of paint upon the canvas, eyes watering at the mere sight of her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had spent so many hours diving into her orbs — He could almost recreate them by heart. Their shapes, their exact color and the way they shone in wonder. He remembered how they scunched up whenever she laughed, how big they became when she cried. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s like they inflate</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he had once told her. And they did. Two black holes, ready to swallow him whole — and perhaps he should have let that happen. He could remember them so clearly it almost hurt. Those big, hopeful eyes that shone upon the world and lightened his way. Those big, beautiful eyes that would remain shut forever. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What wouldn’t he give to see her one last time? To dive into them for hours, trying to decipher what she was thinking? He swallowed a lump in his throat, trying not to spill any tears on the canvas. Clara wouldn’t want that, he thought. But Clara wasn’t there, was she?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He did her nose that day. Her funny little nose, delicate and proud, standing in the middle of her pretty face. He smiled bitterly, recalling how she would scrunch her face from time to time, when she was grading papers. After a while, he had gathered that it was not a good sign for the students. He thought about the way she wrinkled her nose whenever she was about to sneeze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was funny — all those little details he hadn’t thought he had noticed were all coming back now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now that she was gone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He added some color to her cheeks, perfected her make-up, and finally moved on to her hair. Halfway through, he realized that he had done her locks longer than they had been in their recent travels. His mind had chosen to represent her as he had met her. The first face this face saw. Clara Oswald, with her bangs that hid her forehead, with her long dark locks falling gracefully on her shoulders. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Clara Oswald, you’ll never look any different to me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He smiled. Oh, how he smiled. He smiled because he missed her so very much. And maybe it was foolish. Maybe he was hardly of any use — but he needed her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He needed to get her out of his head because she was occupying his every thought, he needed to have her with him, by his side. She was his reason to fight, his reason to keep on going. Who was he when he was not Clara’s doctor? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Every time he closed his eyes, he could see her, standing still and proud in that alley, arms open, welcoming death like an old friend. Every time he closed his eyes, he could hear her scream, piercing through his hearts and breaking them into thousands of pieces. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he could no longer live with that pain. He could no longer sleep and rest for she was always there, reminding him how he had failed to save her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Reminding him that he was alone, and scared.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Only her presence would arouse his will to fight, to survive. He was giving himself a chance. No words would ever match up to the way she made him feel, no actions would ever fix his mistakes. But a painting was a memory. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A painting was eternal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And so would she be, once his work was done.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he didn’t know what to feel about that. In a way, it made her more alive than ever — and yet he knew. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew that she was gone forever.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shuddered. A noise to his side : a fly, dangerously close to the fresh paint. Time was up. The creature was nearby. Abandoning his brushes, he rose, and stared at the newcomer shaking, standing in front of his unfinished artwork, shielding it from the evil monster. He would not let him get to Clara — If it was the last thing he did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it was.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Clara, I’m scared. I'm so scared.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was the first thing he noticed as he entered the plain bedroom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A canvas, flat on the ground — the smell of paint and burned flesh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And her face. Her pretty face, staring at him. Oh, that was cruel. Whoever did this — Whoever painted her clearly wanted to rouse his sorrow. And they succeeded. His hearts clenched. He closed his eyes, trying to block the memory of his beloved companion screaming in agony. That was the problem when he stopped running : the pain would catch up. It would follow him everywhere for eternity, a constant reminder that he had failed to save someone who mattered to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor came closer to the painting, studying it. Only her smile was missing but it seemed that whoever had painted her didn’t have the time to finish the artwork. Pity, he would have sacrificed a regeneration or two just to see her smile again. Maybe it didn't have to come to that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor ran to the desk, picked up a few brushes, and whatever was left of paint, and started to work. He knew he didn’t have much time before the creature came back. But he couldn’t leave this masterpiece unfinished.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had always loved to see her smile. Those pretty pink lips of hers were somehow comforting : as long as she smiled, he knew that everything would be alright. There was something solar about it, as if her grin could light up the universe. Was that why everything seemed so cold? So empty? The world had lost all its color when Clara had gone, taking with her all the joy, all the beauty around her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor swallowed. He could hear the creature coming, always closer. He worked feverishly until it was right at the doorstep. Then, he took the stool, and threw it out the window.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He jumped. He jumped knowing he would survive, knowing he had to survive so he could finish off the painting. He jumped and ran. He ran until his lungs were burning. He ran back to her, where his place was, where it always had been. The creature was still chasing him but he continued to bring life to the portrait, no matter how painful it was. He wanted to represent her in all her glory, with a smile on her pretty face. A smile he knew he would never get to see again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Never again… </span>
  </em>
  <span>No, he couldn’t dwell on those horrible thoughts now. He needed to focus on the task. Only then would he know peace. The Doctor carefully tried to add a bit more detail. He had mapped every mole, every feature, every imperfection that made her who she was. All he wanted was to make her as realistic as possible. No matter how much it broke his heart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And when it was finally over, he took his time to stare at his finished work. And he smiled. He had found a way to perfectly match the artist’s style.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looked exactly as he remembered her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Clara Oswald, you’ll never look any different to me.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He froze, brows furrowed. Why did it seem so familiar? Somehow, he could almost remember thinking this, in front of that very same painting. Now — That couldn’t be real, could it? He had never been there before. The Doctor bit the inside of his cheeks, concerned, his eyes studying the painting with utmost care.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No. It couldn’t be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How ? He had managed to match the artist’s style… How could it be? No — it wasn’t possible. He refused to believe it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But this portrait of Clara…How would they know? How could they know? Unless…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Unless they never had.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The brush fell on the ground.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had betrayed himself. The portrait had his signature all over it. How was that possible?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The only plausible answer would be that he had been here before. How? Why?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh god. That painting. Who could have done it except him? Who else?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The doctor grasped for air. What had he done?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Bird.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could no longer breathe. He could no longer run. He was frozen, and the painting fell on the bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It all made sense and the reality of it made his head spin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew what he had to do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The terrible things he had to suffer through.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And when the creature got to him, he let it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knew there was no other way</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t know where to place the painting. Whether it should remain inside the bedroom or not. And then he thought it didn’t matter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because this was not Clara.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Because Clara was dead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And there was nothing he could do about it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Why did it have to be you?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor was curled up in the bed, trying to find sleep. Failing to do so. He tossed and turned, getting more and more irritated. He was too alert, his senses in ferment. Everything was so foreign, so scary — How could he hope to rest? He could almost hear the distant footsteps of the creature, threatening. If he had calculated right, he had eighty-two minutes before the creature came back. Eighty-two minutes to sleep, eat, and work on finding Room number twelve. That was his purpose wasn’t it? The only way he could escape this living hell? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sighed sadly. After days of running, of mapping the castle and pushing aside his needs, the Doctor knew he wouldn’t be able to make it out alive if he didn’t get any sleep. He had tried to catnap before. Every time he felt himself go to the realms of dreams, he could hear her scream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor turned towards the portrait of Clara that laid besides him on the bed, where he had found it. He didn't have the heart to remove it, to put it elsewhere : she was exactly where she belonged, right next to him, the safest place in the universe. Or it was supposed to be. He grinned upon studying her features, her eyes he loved so much, her smile he missed so dearly. His fingers trailed on her cheek, remembering the warmth of her skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor got up, and hung the portrait above the fire-place. He smiled bitterly, their faces so close and yet so far. He took a few minutes to study it, to appreciate the artists’ technique, and somehow reassured, the Doctor got into the bed again. He closed his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There she was, hanging in front of the bed, above the fireplace much like a bespoke guardian angel keeping an eye on him while he slept.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was her duty of care.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Clara, I can’t lose.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>If he could carry around the portrait he would. He would take it with him around the castle just to give himself courage. But he can’t. And Clara’s painting remains on the bedroom wall. Sometimes, he wished he would have snapped a picture of Clara during their adventures. When they were on the Orient-Express, or maybe that day they had visited Jane Austen? She had looked so lovely back then, wearing her most beautiful dress… Or just Clara Oswald with her silly nose and beautiful eyes. Just one, not nearly enough to fill an album. It would have been nice, though, wouldn’t it?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But just one would have sufficed. He would have kept it in his breast pocket, against his hearts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That way he would never be alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That way, a part of her would always be with him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even though she was gone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor smiled to Clara bitterly, and took down the painting. Carefully, he flipped the canvas, and with a brush, added a little message to himself, and to whoever would find themselves stuck in this hellish place after him. The same message he had found on the stele in the backyard.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I am in Twelve</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing had ever been more true.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>How long can I keep doing this, Clara?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How long had he been here? How long had he been running? He didn’t even know where he was going, and why he even bothered. He could never shake off the creature : it was always coming for him, never faster, never slower and he couldn’t do it any longer. It was all too much. The running, the fear, the constant weight on his shoulders. He was out of breath, out of time. And she was still gone. Oh god, Clara was still gone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor stood in front of her portrait, staring into her beautiful eyes, trying to find the strength to keep going. He hadn’t slept in days, had barely eaten. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally — and his beloved companion watching over him didn’t help. He once thought that her smile alone would help him defeat anything. He had been wrong about that. Where he used to find comfort in that beautiful grin of hers, he now found nothing but sorrow. Her smile stung, her eyes burnt holes through his hearts. He didn’t want a picture, he wanted her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was there — and she wasn’t. She was there — and it wasn’t enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor fell down to his knees in front of her painting, giving in to the sorrow and despair, offering his body, his soul to the mere memory of the woman he loved — the woman he lost. Hoping that if she saw him like that, giving up, she would appear out of nowhere and push him to stand up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t. She was dead. She was dead and the creature was coming, its steps heavy on the ground. He didn’t care. He wanted it to end.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wanted to die. Maybe then, would he see her again? Or perhaps he was already dead, and this was his punishment. Maybe he was in Hell.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Clara — Oh my Clara.” He moaned, locking eyes with her picture. “I can’t do this anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He closed his eyes in defeat. And when he opened them again, he was inside the TARDIS. The lights were dimmed, the console humming sadly and the silence overwhelming. For the first time in forever, he didn’t even want to be here. It didn’t feel like home without her. Everything was too quiet — too empty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He heard some scribbling on the chalkboard and turned his head only to see the shadow of his friend quietly leaving out of his sight. He wanted to scream at her and beg her to come back. He wanted her to face him, just one more time.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Yes, you can. Get up and win.</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He shook his head. Too much hope had always been Clara’s mistake. She had always seen some kind of hero in him : he was nothing but a man, underneath. He was never special — not like she was.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Why can’t I be like you? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He remembered her saying. All he had ever wanted to answer was that he wished only to be more like her. His hearts trembled.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I wish I could be as brave as you.” He whispered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But I’m not.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He saw her, standing in that alley, proudly facing her demise. He saw her, arms open, ready to welcome death. He saw her, beautiful, her back turned on him — proud and strong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Let me be brave.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Let me be brave.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tears began to dwell on his cheeks as he repressed a sob. He could feel the wave of his loss crashing down on him, washing his determination, his courage. He could feel it building inside of him, ready to overwhelm him — a tsunami of repressed feelings. He hid his face unto his hands, trying to conceal his sorrow. Trying to remain composed. What for? She wasn’t really here. No one was. He was alone and scared. So very alone. And he couldn’t do it any longer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And the Doctor let himself go. He screamed. He screamed his rage, his heartbreak. His cries echoed inside the empty TARDIS, making the walls tremble. And the tears he once tried to repress were cascading down his cheeks, untamable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor felt a set of strong arms hugging him from behind, two hands resting on top of his broken hearts. The lovely scent of her perfume. The feeling of her body he had missed against his own. He didn’t have to turn around. He knew it was her. Who else — but the woman he had lost?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She said nothing, but he could feel the warmth of her cheek against his back, and that alone was enough to make him sob harder. He gave up, breaking down in her arms. She held him through it and held him tight, keeping him grounded.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“It’s okay, Doctor. It’s okay. It will be better next time.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>She whispered, rocking him to his last moments.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He nodded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe next time.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m gonna stop this, Clara !</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He talked to her sometimes. Told her about her day, pretending that she was really here and yet fully aware that she wasn’t. She was just an image — a very realistic one. Almost so perfect all he had to do was close his eyes and let his mind wonder. He’d imagine what she would answer, how she’d move, or laugh. Sometimes, he could almost feel her by his side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And it was enough.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enough to keep going.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enough to give him strength.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Almost enough.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But when you’ve lost someone — Do pictures really help?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He looked at the painting, and smiled bitterly. It was old, so very, very old. It was full of cracks, and yet so beautifully imperfect. As she always had been. Her nose was too funny, her head was too round — and yet, those were the things he loved the most about her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Clara Oswald, you’ll never look any different to me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought, but the memory of their Christmas reunion brought back bitter-sweet feelings. He took his time to study it, finding his eyeglass just beside the artwork. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked at her, his hearts trembling, his eyes watering. Her smile was reassuring, her eyes urging him to survive, to keep on going. That was all he needed. All he ever needed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Except that she wasn’t there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a fly on the painting. There was a crack in her portrait. And Clara was gone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t want a picture. He wanted Clara. He needed Clara.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he would do anything to get her back. And deep down, he knew. He knew what he had to do. The sacrifices that needed to be made. He was fine with that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He loved her enough to keep on fighting. He loved her too much to let her go. Why couldn’t he just… let her go? But the smile on her face, the stars in her eyes, the sound of her laughter when the world had gone grey — it was the only thing he had ever desired.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Perhaps, it was time to stop being selfless. Perhaps it was time to get what he was owed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One small victory.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Doctor was not selfish. But there were times like these where he wanted to be. There were times where he had the right to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For Clara.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For their relationship.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For the love burning inside of him, never voiced and yet untamable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiled at her, the paining. He was ready.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And when the creature came, he threw the stool out of the window.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And when he faced the wall, he punched it with all his might, thinking of her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Always thinking of her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And as he died, on the ground, alone, he found himself thinking that he would do it all over again if it meant that he had a chance to save her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, Clara Oswald. I promise you, I will find a way. Whatever it takes, no matter the cost. I will find a way to save you. I’ll come back for you. I swear.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
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